Potpourri
by Fushigi Rockna
Summary: For you, the sense of smell doesn’t just stimulate your olfactory nerve, it also stimulates your memory. Memories of a man who'd run through pouring rain just to get you flowers.... [past tense HughesxRoy]


**AN:** My muses really do come from the _oddest_ places sometimes. :/ Huh.

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Smell; one of the five senses, one where the olfactory nerve is stimulated. The smell of a flower medley wafts to you now and you inhale it graciously. For you, the sense of smell isn't just stimulating your olfactory nerve, it's also stimulating your memory.

You hadn't meant to come across the container you once so regularly filled with dry, crushed petals, but you did. It wasn't even what you were originally looking for but the sight of the gold, rectangular tin drew you in, and you forgot what it was you were looking for in the first place. Memories were stimulated even before you opened the box, as you traced the birds of paradise painted on the metal, staring blankly at them as they return the stares. Who had given you the box? Could you even remember? Perhaps it was from your grandmother or you saw it at a pawn shop while walking one day through the city. Either way, that wasn't the important part. The memories were being stimulated by what was inside.

At first glance, one might only see red dust, but you knew better. After all, you were the one who grounded those red petals until they were the dust state they are now. You sift your hand through the dust and find dried lilacs, bits of white and pink and blue and orange and yellow. The hint of a green leaf emerges now and then. The aroma wafts up with the mixing and you recall the one who gave you all these.

Even when with another man he was a romantic. He always brought you flowers, no matter what the occasion. His financial situation didn't even matter. If he had the money, he'd buy some nice roses. But if he was broke (which was the majority of times), he'd yank several off someone's lawn. Lilacs, daisies and peonies were often what he gave because of that. Even if it was pouring rain out, he'd run through it just to grab you a few perennial blooms. Because that was how much he loved you. And you'd answer the door to find him drenched, but clasping at least ten stems, and you'd give him that reprimanding smile, along with a mock lecture before inviting him in to warm up with some coffee or tea. All while hiding your disdain at the bug peeking out at you from inside one of the blossoms. Because that was how much you loved him.

It was because of how much trouble he went through for them that you kept them. Most would call flowers an impractical gift, given the short time they lasted, but you knew how to counter that. You'd let them sit in a vase for a day or two, then tie the stems together and hang them somewhere to dry. He brought you more each time after all, so you always had some fresh ones gracing the room. Once the older ones were dry you'd crush up their petals and put them in a tin. You'd heard of this before; potpourri. You had no idea how to actually make potpourri but you knew it had to do with aromatic flowers, and that was all you needed. Your mediocre potpourri didn't have much scent at first but once you had more, there was a wonderful smell. Eventually you had to transfer it to the current tin it was in now, because you had so much.

The two of you were young. A couple of kids. Kids who thought they were adults but were really still kids. Two kids oh so in love. Yet to be scarred by the horrors of the world; the cruelty of war, the dying faces, the harsh views of those already jaded, the merciless principle of Equivalent Exchange, and the stench of bloodshed. Yet to be separated by the flow of time and the way of life. Just two innocent hummingbirds, content with flowers and each other's company.

You held on to that innocence for as long as you could. But eventually you couldn't hold on any more.

It was when you could hold on no more that the flowers stopped coming so frequently.

You separated. It was hard, you knew it was. But it'd be even harder remaining a couple while one was out on the frontlines of a rebellion. It was for the best this way. Although you didn't want to believe it.

The last flower he gave you before you left was the only one you couldn't keep. It wilted in the hot air of Ishbal as your train entered the war zone. Just as quickly as your innocence did the next day.

The two of you had written to each other during the war, and he always drew a little flower at the bottom to keep your spirits up. You would've kept those flowers too, had Kimbley not once came upon one of the letters and was going to read it out loud. Luckily you burned it before he could. You then burned the rest of them, afraid of the punishment of being found out a homosexual within the military.

His letters slowed down, as if he realized the danger. No longer did they contain words of love. You expected flowers when you returned, but then you discovered the reason for the decreased flow of letters and lack of 'I love you's.

He was giving flowers to someone else.

But that was okay, that was all right. You were no longer together. The two of you were on the market again. It made sense someone else would get him while you were away. It was to be expected.

So why did your heart cry?

He still sent you flowers though. Although only twice a year - your birthday and the anniversary of your separation - they still counted and you still dried them and crushed the petals for your potpourri. He always sent you roses then, because he could afford sending roses twice a year. Your men would speculate and tease you over who would send you, their Colonel, such fine blooms. So you'd give them a sly, smug look and tell them they'd get roses too if they were as good with the ladies as you. Only Hawkeye knew the truth. The bouquet sent marking your separation always had a single card on it saying 'Happy Anniversary!' Although it was a joke, you could tell he had regret every time he wrote it out and sent that bouquet. Regret of what had been lost. You felt it too, more than he ever could. After all, you were the one that broke it off.

When you stopped receiving those roses after his death, every one knew who the mysterious sender was. Everyone stayed quiet.

You stare at the medley now, your stomach churning. Fond memories have now turned to sadness. He's gone. This is all you have left of him, of your time together. You don't even care that he gave flowers to someone else, according to him, you were his first 'real' love, the first love of his life, and that was why he gave you those flowers. So it didn't matter to you that you had to share the experience of receiving flowers from him with someone else; she was the one he ended up with, but you were the first. Nothing could take that away.

You two were soul mates. Even once you separated he stayed by your side. You were always there for each other, always reaching out for the other, even if you couldn't always see that. Your fingers would twine together, if just in a hold of assurance, if just to say 'we're going to make it, buddy', you still held on with the same emotion as when you held hands in bed. You will always be soul mates, in life or death, whether romantically, or platonically. Always.

You stand, the tin carefully in both hands, and move to the window. Opening it and looking out, you face the direction of his grave. Although you can't see the grave from here, or even the cemetery, you know which direction it is from countless sleepless nights of staring out this way for hours, feeling the heavy loss. You look for minutes in silence, before digging a hand into your mixture of memories and throwing it into the wind. You can only hope that the wind will be kind enough to take these memories to him, where ever he may be now, along with the messages of 'I love you' and 'Meet you there' you softly whisper.

You'll meet him there. And this time, you'll be the one with blossoms of love to give.


End file.
